


the louvre

by bayports



Series: the romanticists [1]
Category: Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon, Nancy Drew (Video Games), Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: Art, Betrayal, Developing Relationship, Espionage, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Just Roll With It, Multi, Mystery, Slow Burn, Team Dynamics, Theft, Unresolved Romantic Tension, bruh idk what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayports/pseuds/bayports
Summary: in which bayport plays backdrop an endless summer where frank and joe hardy aid a pretty stranger in stopping an art heist perpetrated by the vicious professional criminal gang 'the romanticists'.





	1. please don't touch the art

**Author's Note:**

> this work is mixed verse! it's primarily based on the timeline established by her interactive's line of nancy drew games, but also takes elements of dynamite comics' version of nancy drew (not the hardy boys crossover, but 2018-19's run set in bayport featuring the core seven!). this fic will hopefully be long & follow a mystery as if it were one of the games; along the way, there'll be lots of relationship stuff including but not limited to: francy, nedcy, bessjoe, + a few flings with original characters i've come up with to feature in this plot. i hope you enjoy - this will be the final revision, i swear !

**“NOT ONE FOR PARTIES, HUH?” ** the girl asks coolly, sitting down next to the boy who has been guarding that particular loveseat for the last twenty minutes. She’d been watching him for the past six.

The boy looks up at the girl, and almost chokes on the beer-saturated ice he’s been trying to swallow. Around him, his Bayport High classmates are getting drunk, horny, high; but nothing is enough of a distraction to even compete with the girl that stands in front of him.

“Uh, yeah. Not my scene.” Frank Hardy responds, blinking a few times in a futile attempt to best the haze of insobriety he’s unwittingly blinded himself with—the fact that his contacts, put in tonight in lieu of his usual rectangular frames, are a little different to the normal prescription, doesn’t help in the slightest. In the blurring light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, he can make out delicate features framed by dark hair.

She’s pretty (with and without the alcohol speaking in his ear) and her tight top, tighter skirt and thigh-high socks with boots are worn with confidence he can’t even begin to aspire to; maybe the confidence is what makes her even more intriguing, the highlighter on her cheekbones even more dazzling. Or maybe Frank was just romanticising.

That was something he tended to do.

She offers a warm smile.  _ She has a nice smile. _

“Neither. It’s a bit disorientating, to be honest.” Her tone is smooth, enticing. Maybe it’s the alcohol speaking, the exhaustion of a long day, or the soft swell of summer heat that’s found solace in the house of Callie Shaw that makes Frank hang on to her every word. He’s never this casual, this open — even when drunk, and, by the way, he can hold his drinks, _quite well, _actually — and it’s something even he is aware of.

The alcohol he's let slip into his system has made his throat scratchy and dry, his words apprehensive and clipped. “Yeah, between you and me, it's kind of lame.”

“Tell me about it.” The girl chuckles, before standing up. She lifts her hand, beckoning to the boy—her eyes bright with something intangible, but entrancing. “Should we find something a little more  _ interesting  _ to do?”

Frank gives it a thought, and quickly surveys the room. His brother is nowhere to be seen. It’s most likely that he’s already ditched the party for the drive-thru in pursuit of a cheeseburger; Frank’s brotherly duties are finished for the night.

(To be fair, the party  _ was _ humdrum and the girl was pretty and yes, okay, drunk Frank was seventy percent sure he could at least get her number. Joe would’ve done the same.)

“Sounds like a plan.” The boy, dark-haired and taller than most of the guys skulking around the Shaw property, stood up to follow her. They snaked through the myriad of Frank’s classmates, the miasma of sweat and cheap alcohol—someone had brought crappy beer, crappy cigarettes, crappy everything—filling the duo’s senses. 

Callie’s house is big (he knows it well, for reasons he didn’t like to think about these days) and it fits in far more people than the view from the street would suggest; in fact, it has such a capacity Frank’s sure it should be advertised next time it’s put up for sale.  _ Four bathrooms, five bedrooms and a four-space garage! Footnote: there’s a lot of room for teenagers to party _ . (The gist was that Frank wanted Callie to leave.)

Various Bayport real estate businesses flash through his mind as Frank follows the girl out the door, down the little steps, over Mrs. Shaw’s meticulously brick-layed footpath. The street, which is smooth from last year’s re-laying, disappears quickly beneath his sneakers as he follows the girl. They reach a crossing at the end of the street. Frank follows her across to a small shopping strip and petrol station—in this area, the more well-to-do part of Bayport, the complex sticks out like a sore thumb, but it’s a familiar sort of landmark he can recognise, even late at night where everything seemed to run on a different plane of reality.

Bayport, in general, ran on a different plane of reality.

The girl sits down a bus stop near the twenty-four-hour mart, and beckons him to do the same. His first reaction is to be reluctant; it’s the same bus stop Frank used to get off at to walk down this road, up to Callie’s front door, in pursuit of their weekday ‘rendezvous’. In retrospect, it’s a ritual he regrets, especially since the altar is usually her bedroom and he always ends up stuck in a cycle of self-imposed repentance.

“Are we running away?” he asks, smiling lazily. Frank Hardy doesn’t do lazy smiles—no, that’s more Joe’s wheelhouse—but it’s easy to be relaxed, when you’ve had maybe three shots and at least twice as many beers, and it’s easy to be happy when you’ve got a pretty girl in front of you.

“Not yet.” She flashes him a smile (she’s still a  _ she _ : he ran on a very limited gamebook and had neglected to ask her name) and takes his arm. Frank opens his mouth to say something just before she flips his wrist around, examining the face of his digital watch.

It beeps.  _ Ten pm. _

She drops his arm gently before tilting her head, a laugh leaving her lips: “Sorry. Checking the time to see when the bus comes.”

He nods. They make small talk for half a minute before the bus, noisy and obnoxious and expelling acrid fumes, rolls up onto the bitumen before them. They hop onto the nearly-empty vehicle (the girl pays for the fares, dropping a ten into the worn-out driver’s hand, telling him to keep the change) and find a seat at the very back. There’s only an old lady at the front, making one-sided conversation to the driver, and a tired-looking man a few rows behind.

_ Bayport. Another plane of reality. _

Frank unbuttons the top of his flannel shirt—borrowed from Joe, since Frank is a Henley boy all the way to River Heights and back, which according to his brother, is not an inherently good thing—then does it up again. The girl’s thigh presses just slightly against his, and it makes his stomach flutter every time the bus shakes.

“So, are you new around town?” He’s proud of himself for being able to construct a full sentence, but even still, the fogginess clouding his senses has lifted somewhat, walking through the night air, and he can think clearly. Sort of.

“You could say that.” She turns towards him, bringing her knees up onto the seat, curling like a cat. “I’m drifting, if that makes sense.”

It didn’t. “Um… help me out here.”

“I –” She chuckles for a moment, pushing her hair behind her ears, “I’m kind of just. . . hanging around. Waiting for something to happen.”

“That’s ominous.”

“Only if you’re looking for warning signs.”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen here, right?” Frank laughs, hands raising to adjust glasses that aren’t there.

“In Bayport?” She arches an eyebrow, “No. I don’t think so.”

There’s a pause for a moment, before she laughs a little to break the silence. The sound, sharp and sweet, cuts through the silence. “But you are, aren’t you? From here, I mean?”

He nods, lips parting to utter words his brain hasn’t given the green light for just yet: “Yep. We haven’t met, officially. I’m Frank. Frank Hardy.”  _ Why did you say your last name, idiot?  _ In an attempt to cover up the awkwardness that the girl doesn’t even notice, he offers a hand to shake. A tentative smile grows on his lips; he carries that sort of cute, endearing innocence—a delicate kind of naivety—found commonly in small-town boys.

The girl takes his hand without missing a beat. Her grasp is firm, commanding. “It’s nice to meet you  _ officially _ .” Her words falter just slightly on the last word, and she laughs. “Officially.”

“ _ Officially _ .” He feels like an idiot.

She smiles at him like he is one. And then, he says, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Alas, I didn’t throw it. That’s for me to know, and for you to find out.” Her gaze holds his for a moment, before drifting to the darkened window outside, where the scenery of Bayport is illuminated only by the eerie light of the bus itself.

“Well, lucky for you, I  _ love _ mysteries.”

“Oh, really?” Another laugh. “ _ Lucky for you _ ,” she throws his words back at him, but they sound so much nicer out of her lips, “I’m one of the best.”

He can’t help but smile at that. “Is that all I’m going to get? A witty one-liner with no follow-up, none at all?”

“Oh, you’ll get your follow-up, detective.” He wonders if he’s smiling too much. Then, almost as if to reassure him, the girl smiles again. It’s a million watts and he’s sure it could power the whole damn city.

“One bus stop left.” Her voice echoes in his ear as the bus draws to a temporary stationary, letting off the old woman. “Tell me, Frank, why are you here?”

“Is this a philosophical, existential question?” He applauds himself for not butchering the vowels as the bus picks up its crawl again. “Or do you mean why was I at the party—”

“I mean, what were you doing at the party? Like you said, it’s not your scene.” 

“My brother dragged me there.” There was no way in hell he’d go to one of Callie Shaw’s parties if Joe hadn’t made him. Of course, Joe didn’t realise it was Callie’s till Chet pulled up to her familiar driveway, but still.

“Your brother? How old is he?”

“Not old enough for parties like  _ that _ , that’s for sure.” Frank shakes his head almost imperceptibly, before closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He could tell the girl was smiling again, without even needing to look. “He’s ten months younger than me — sixteen.”

She registers this for a moment, before nodding. “Ah, I see.”

“How about you, insert-name-here?”

“I saw a cute boy and I decided to shoot my shot.”

Frank sits up straight, and almost breaks his neck as he turns to face the girl. Once again, he goes to slide non-existent glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a joke, don’t panic.” She looks back out the window before facing him again, rolling her red-glossed lips into a thin line, somehow managing not to smear her makeup. “I’m using you as a means to flex my art history skills. On a cute, if not  _ dense  _ and slightly drunk, subject.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” He rubs the back of his neck, “Not the, uh, cute thing. The dense thing.” _He_ knows the word, but drunk Frank doesn’t.

“I don’t know, actually. Your face kind of cancels it out."

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you rightfully should.” The girl nods with approval, hazel eyes glinting in the fluorescent lights for a moment before the bus rolls to a stop. “This is ours.”

They get off on a road that Frank initially doesn’t recognise: Dixon Street, wherein a lot of private businesses were established and had been for many years previously. Smack-bang in the middle of downtown Bayport, it felt out of place even more so at night than it did during the day. It all started to come back to him as the girl pulled him down the smooth footpath; this wasn’t a place he ventured to often, even though he and Joe knew Bayport better than most. Frank was more partial to the library or perhaps the diner on the boardwalk—despite his apparently pretentious persona, this part of town wasn’t his cup of tea. He wasn’t sure if it was  _ anyone’s _ .

He follows the girl to a building he can’t place at all: a beautiful facade of mixed Grecian columns and modern glass, it’s a newly-renovated structure that takes a few moments to ring a bell.

The gallery—the Bayport Center of the Creatives—was the city council’s newest baby and perhaps the hill it had chosen to die on. Once a sad, desolated money pit, the center had been bought from whoever owned it before and restored to the pride of Bayport citizens. Although it’d been open for a while (presenting local artists and small-time creators) a new exhibition was to be installed on the first day of summer. Allegedly—according to Aunt Trudy and his mother—the new owners had procured a Vermeer, a Van Gogh and a couple more lucrative pieces. This was big news for the city, and bigger news for the fat cats uptown. Bayport was big, but it wasn’t  _ Vincent-van-Gogh-in-a-public-gallery-big,  _ unless you were filthy rich and a proud curator of a private collection.

Frank, who had personally foiled enough art heists for a lifetime, had completely forgotten about the upcoming re-opening and re-christening. He knew his father was invited to opening night (a black-and-tie event, how about that!) but it wasn’t something he was particularly excited about.

Until the mystery girl pushes open the glass doors of the center and the swift wave of air conditioning floods over him. Until she pulls him inside—and tells the security guard that  _ yes _ , she knows they’ll be closing in half an hour,  _ please just give us a few minutes _ —and walks quickly over the marble, her hand decidedly in his. Until she drags him to a stop in front of a painting by an artist he doesn’t know but wants to now that he can see how enamoured the girl is with it.

He doesn’t get it.

The drinks have started to wear off, just slightly, and he realises that the reason he can’t understand the painting is because he’s not meant to: “It’s impressionist, sort of,” the girl explains with a sly smile, staring at the ganache wash of blues and reds. There’s a figure somewhere in the colours, maybe two of them, but the dimmed light of the gallery and the exhaustion that’s beginning to creep in in the absence of alcohol has made its home for the night. “It’s the impression of an impression. You can feel the colours like moods. . . you see that blue, that’s meeting the red?”

Frank nods, but he looks at the girl instead.

“This painting is called  _ Robin and Tom _ . And the red is the robin, and the blue is the Tom. They’re on separate sides, never to touch properly—” the girl points to where the colours  _ almost  _ meet, “—but always in sight, in reach.”

“Who painted it?”

“Someone from California, I think.”

“You like their work?”

“Religiously.”

Her eyes leave the painted canvas and flicker over to him. “You said you liked solving mysteries, didn’t you, Frank?”

“Mm.”

She nods, her expression relaxing into another soft smile, but doesn’t explain her inquiry. Instead, they stand together, in front of  _ Robin and Tom _ , in a cold, empty museum of marble and murals, silent. In wait.

They stand there for a few more minutes before the security guard whisks them outside, and Frank breathes in the warm spring air once more. They walk back to the bus stop at the start of Dixon street wherein the girl ceases in her quick strides, turning to the other as she leans on a streetlight.

“You know how to get home?”

He nods; he could take the bus or better yet, call Joe to pick him up. Patting down his jeans for his phone, he stops in his tracks when he can’t find it.  _ It’s back at Callie’s—but that's an adventure for tomorrow.  _ “Actually, I don’t.”

“Do you want to call your brother on my phone?” In the soft light of the street, she looks ethereal. Hazy, more likely: it’s interchangeable at this point. But she’s pretty all the same.

“I—yes, please.”

She hands him her phone and he types in his brother’s number, the muscle memory intact despite the alcohol in his system (Adam’s shitty Corona, something or other.) Joe picks up on the first ring and after a few moments of laughter— _ ha ha, you’re stranded _ —he says he’ll come pick Frank up.

He hands the phone back to the girl with a grateful smile. “Thanks. Did you enjoy our excursion?”

The girl nods with a light chuckle, “I did. Unfortunately there wasn’t much flexing on my part, of the art history variety, but I’m sure they’ll be a volume two of our adventures. It’s a to-be-continued situation.”

“Oh, really?”

“Definitely.” She smiles brightly at him, stepping away from her vigil at the streetlamp and closer to him. A hand extends to touch his shoulder gently. “I had a nice night, Frank. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome?” He pauses. “I think you’re the one to thank.”

She shakes her head before dropping her hand and turning to walk the other way. There’s the glow of headlights in the distance now: Frank knows it’s Joe in their Prius. Even from here, he can hear the obnoxious rap that Joe  _ purposefully  _ plays just to annoy him—all in good fun, of course—but his focus remains on the girl.

“Should I wait around for volume two? Or will I have to track you down?” His tone is lighthearted but he’s too tired to keep it consistent.

“Like all good mysteries, detective, you’ll just have to follow the clues.” the girl says, before fully turning away and walking into the night.


	2. the hardy charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> frank meets the mystery girl officially & joe urges him to move on from nancy AND callie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so sorry this is so late! + this chapter and the next were written with the intention of being one part but it ended up so long i split it in two.

**IT’S A NORMAL MORNING FOR FRANK, **except of course he’s got a dreadful headache and a severe case of embarrassment. Sitting in Bayport Diner—a nice, family-run establishment situated conveniently on the boardwalk—with his brother and Chet Morton laughing him from across the table in their usual booth, Frank is all but ready to curl up and die.

They usually rode their bikes but this morning, Frank didn’t trust himself not to crash and cause bodily harm to any innocent Bayport citizens, so he’d begged Joe to walk. It’d been nice—save for the jokes that Joe kept coming—up until Frank had almost walked straight into the moving van parked in their street. Fortunately, Joe hadn’t caught it on camera.

It wasn’t exactly fair for Joe to be so cavalier and comical about the matter (since he was the heavy drinker of the two of them if it ever came down to it) but Frank let him have his fun. Saturday mornings at the diner with Chet, Joe—and formerly, _ Callie _ —was a tradition and was not to be messed with, even if one third of the group was horribly hungover. Still, he had an unlimited access to coffee, and a nice seaside view: these antidotes, combined, was his answer to _ the morning after _and its subsequent regrets.

Sipping his coffee—no sugar but lots and lots of regret—and massaging his temples with his free hand, Frank keeps his eyes on the spider he can see crawling up the backsplash of the booth behind theirs. It’s a fuzzy little thing, the type of bug his mom would get him to kill if she stumbled across it while cleaning, and it’s a surprisingly effective point of focus. His eyes are trailing the spider’s thin thread of silk when Joe leans across the table and pokes him in the shoulder.

“What’s with the ‘morning-after’ glow?” His brother offers him a grin, his blue eyes glinting. Frank notices that he’s wearing one of _ his _sweaters, but lets it go: this is not the hill he wants to die on.

“Excuse me?”

“Did someone get,” Joe coughs pointedly, but his tone is jovial, “lucky? Last night?”

Frank gulps down more of his coffee as Joe and Chet raise their eyebrows in a synchronised fashion. “_ No, _I didn’t.”

And that was when he remembered the mystery girl: the art admirer from Callie’s party. He couldn’t recall her face exactly—he blamed his stupid headache and previous actions for that—but he remembered that she had a nice smile.

A really nice smile.

“You didn’t hook up with Callie again, did you?” Chet asks, taking a few chips from their communal basket of fries. The fries rest on the morning’s newspaper, snatched from home by the older brother with the intent of perusal it but now long forgotten. Joe looks horrified for a second, and Frank’s pretty sure his own expression is the same.

“God, no.”

“You didn’t drunk call, ahem, _ you know _ ?” Joe asks, eyes widening as he does a little telephone gesture with his grease-free hand, mouthing _ Nancy _ after.

Nancy Drew _ is _ the hill Frank will die on. Nancy Drew, who was most likely solving a case somewhere exotic that exact moment; Nancy Drew, who Frank has been essentially in love with for the last year or so; Nancy Drew, who Frank would do anything for.

He shakes his head at Joe, glowering, but his suggestion, however personally offensive, was scarily accurate to assume.

Not that he’d ever gotten drunk at a party and called Nancy and confessed his mostly-repressed feelings for her, but—well, he kind of had. He wasn’t drunk, and he didn’t exactly complete his confession, but it was not one of his better days.

_ Nancy! Please be careful. _

_ I wanted to tell you that I’ve always— _

“Well, who was it?” Chet asks, snapping Frank out of his reluctant nostalgia. Frank takes another sip of his coffee, draining the cup, and runs a hand through his hair.

“No-one, I swear. I just went to the party, got drunk, came home.”

Joe waggles an accusatory finger at him, “If that’s true, sir brother, then why did I pick you up from the Dixon Street bus stop? And whose phone did you call me from?”

“Did you just say _ sir brother _?”

“I stand by what I said! Answer me.”

“I just met someone new. That’s all.”

“What’s her name?” Chet asked him, eyes wide.

_ Now, that’s the question. _Frank is semi-aware of the diner door’s bell chiming, but pays no attention as he looks back down at his empty cup. “Okay, here’s the thing. . .”

Joe arches a brow, but instead of looking vexed, he looks like a caricature of a late-night talk show host. “The thing. . . ?”

“I don’t _ actually _know her name.”

“Ha! Convenient.” Chet says, smacking his lips in an attempt to stop himself from laughing. “Frank befriends a mystery girl, once again, and—”

“—Nancy doesn’t count as a _ mystery girl, _ ” Joe cuts in, “she’s a girl who _ solves _mysteries.”

“Well, she seems to have mystified Frank here.” Chet pauses for a laugh, but no one complies.

“_ Anyway, _” Frank clears his throat. “The girl that is relevant to this conversation— “

“Nancy Drew’s relevant to all your conversations,” Joe smirks. Then, suddenly, his lips twist into a grin. “Frank. Holy crap.”

“Yes? I’m right here.”

“Did you use her phone to call me?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then her number’s in my phone.” All of a sudden, Chet looks a lot more interested. Joe’s shoulders bounce with enthusiasm, his eyes wide.

“And that means?”

“_ You can call her _!” Joe and Chet say, the former leaning across the table to punch Frank in the shoulder. 

“I am not going to do that.”

“Why not?” Chet asks. 

“It’s weird. She never actually gave me her number. And by extension, permission to call her.”

“Frank, _you’re_ weird.” Chet shakes his head. He catches sight of someone sitting at the counter, ordering a coffee. “Hey, look. There’s a girl at the counter. I’m going to get her number and _ show _you how it’s done.”

“Go for it, champ.”

Chet gets up before Frank can say _ he’s not trying to do anything. _He sighs down into his cup and steals one of his brother’s fries. Joe, usually a reluctant sharer, merely watches him, perplexed.

“You swear you didn’t hook up with Callie?”

“God, Joe — let it go!”

“Fine, fine.” Joe huffs a little, the same way he does when he has to pick people for dodgeball in PE. “It’s just. . . y’know, it would’ve been nice for you to get a girlfriend.”

“I’ve had a girlfriend.” Frank says pointedly.

“I know! But I mean for the summer. Or at least someone you can drool over that isn’t Nance or Callie.”

“I feel personally attacked.”

“Well, we don’t have any assignments,” Joe says dryly, leaning back on his spacious share of the booth. That was true: their parents were away on some ATAC related trip and Fenton — head of the organisation— hadn’t left any cases for them. “I am all for you and Drew but you’re not exactly getting anywhere with that.”

“We could save some cats from trees.” Frank ignores his brother, “Or you can reorganise your collection of ATAC shirts.”

“Do not even joke about that. Nancy just came back from Georgia, Frank. She solved a mystery in Georgia. _ Georgia. _”

“We’ve been to Georgia. You didn’t like it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, I think it’ll be fine. We’ll just settle in for a nice, summery summer—”

“_ Summery summer? _”

“You know what I mean. You can just tan and eat cheeseburgers and maybe we can visit Nancy. Or she can come to us.”

“You really want to get your hopes up about that?”

“Shut up, Joe.” Frank says, closing his eyes in resignation. He knows — they both know — that Nancy was never going to break up with her boyfriend, Ned Nickerson, who was one of those square-jawed, athletic, picket-fence Mapleton boys, especially not for Frank. They’d been dating for nearly a year now. Nancy was probably going to spend her entire summer either a) sleuthing, or b) soaking up the sun with Ned.

“Perfect timing. I can see that Chet is struggling over there and I really think he wants to one-up you so I’m gonna go help him out, give a little of the good old Hardy charm.” Joe eyes Chet and the girl at the counter curiously, before standing up. Frank doesn’t bother to look.

A waitress refills his coffee and he takes another sip, considering his options for the summer. He could do what he’d suggested to Joe: tan and hang out with Nancy, if their schedules — _ her _schedule — allowed it. (He was starting to look a bit pale, after all.) Or he could go looking for a mystery to solve. 

He’s adjusting his posture when his eyes catch a glimpse of the forgotten newspaper on the table. He pulls it from underneath the empty basket of fries — he doesn’t bother to try and soak up the grease, it’s a lost cause — and unfolds it.

** _THIEVES STRIKE AGAIN! _ ** _ by _Carter Croft. 

_ Another heist in a long line of related crimes has plagued the art world once more: this morning, three Vermeers and two Monets were stolen from both the Venus Museum of Metropolitan Art and the Maison Gallery. This is just another robbery that has sent high-profile artists, museums and their investors into a frenzy over the past six months — the thefts are vicious and unprecedented. Local police are yet to comment on the crimes: more to follow, cont. on pg 6. _

A connected string of art heists. . . now _ that _ was the type of mystery Frank wanted to solve. Yes, he was (somewhat) satisfied with deciphering local cases, ones usually along the lines of ‘ _ they _ stole this, _ I _ want it back’, but this was the type of thing more his style. Discerning patterns from coincidences, questioning suspects, piecing together the puzzle — it was what Frank and Joe did best.

Solving the case. Getting the bad guy. Fighting the good fight.

Preferably with Nancy, Bess and George, but solo — or what counted for solo, with an equally justice-inclined brother — was good enough.

Above the bustle of the place, he can almost tune in to Joe and Chet’s messy chatter. It’s when he hears his name that he starts paying attention and puts down the _ Bayport Daily _.

“Nice to meet you! I’m Joe, this is my friend Chet — and that’s my brother over there, Frank.” Joe points at his brother with a massive grin on his lips, one matched by Chet but with not as much confidence. “Hey, come over to our booth and I’ll introduce you two.”

Frank keeps his head down as they come back to the table with the new addition. The girl slides into his side of the booth, and he finally looks up at her.

Honey gold eyes flecked with grey, as he can see now in the better morning light. Tall, tan, toned. Effortless smile, one that’s _ just _ asymmetrical, that lifts a little more on the left than the right.

_ The girl. _

“So, this is Frank.”

“Nice to meet you _ officially, _” the girl offers a hand and smiles brightly. Frank can’t help but smile back, and he shakes her hand firmly. “I’m Sawyer.”

“Wait a second. Do you know her?” Chet asks. He’s half drooling — she’s even prettier than she was the night before, with a fresh face and her hair pulled away from her face. “Shit, is she—”

“Yup.” Frank offers a smile that’s code for _ take that! _and becomes uncomfortably aware that he’s still holding her hand. He drops it and chuckles a little bit to himself. “We met last night.”

He shoots a look at Joe, who grins at Sawyer. He continues smoothly, not missing a beat. “So you’ve met Hardy numero uno. I am the second revision, significantly better in every conceivable way.” He’s joking, and Frank can see that Joe’s analysing Sawyer as much as he can: whether he’s judging her for his sake on the little merit she’s offered, or by comparing her to Nancy.

Or to Callie, for that matter.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Sawyer laughs, nudging Frank in the shoulder. “Howdy, stranger. Riding out the hangover like a champion?”

“Indeed I am,” he smiles sheepishly. Her shirt, oversized and the colour of lemonade, is tucked into her jeans. For a moment, the neckline hooks on her necklace and he catches a glimpse of colourful splotches across her collarbones. _ Hickeys _, probably.

Frank clears his throat. “Uh, so you got home safe?”

“Mm. I’m sure you did too, what with your ever-valiant younger brother chauffeuring you back.” She looks great, with those jeans and the citrus shirt; a clear-plastic handbag is slung over her shoulder effortlessly, and even though she’s wearing makeup, from here he can’t even tell.

Chet laughs with Joe, who nods enthusiastically. “I’m quite the gentleman!”

“Certainly seems like it. You know, I was kind of hoping you’d call me. Since my number’s in your brother’s phone and all.”

“_ Ah _.”

Joe snickers. “I told him!” he says to Chet, who nods in gleeful agreement.

“It’s okay.” Sawyer smiles at Joe, but her eyes are on Frank. Warm, golden, entrancing. He holds her gaze for a moment before she looks away and clears her throat. “At least you know now.”

“So, uh, what are you doing here in Bayport?” Chet asks eagerly.

“Spending the summer here, working to save up for college — you know, the works.” Sawyer smacks her lips together softly. “You guys are locals, right?”

“Basically.” Frank nods. “Joe and I used to live in Illinois, but we’ve been here for so long it doesn’t feel like it’s ever been anything different. Chet’s lived here since he was born.”

“You guys like it here?”

“It’s great.” Joe says, running his hand through his light hair. “Where’re you from?”

“New York City.”

“Shit, really?” Chet’s mouth is wide open. Frank understands the feeling: Bayport is big, but if New York City was a hundred miles per hour then Bayport was cruising at a snail’s pace twenty.

“Yep — it’s really busy. I needed the change of pace.”

Chet looks like he’s about to say something else in awe but his watch beeps before he can — with a ‘sorry, Iola’s redecorating her room’ and a goodbye wave thrown enthusiastically at Sawyer, he’s gone.

“So, have you made any friends yet?” Joe questions, arching a blond eyebrow. He resembles a talk show host, all enthusiasm and complete lack of respect for personal boundaries.

“Mm! Frank here, obviously.” Sawyer offers, leaning across the table with a chuckle, “this girl named Callie, she invited me to the party —” Frank blinks — “and now, you and Chet. It’s my third day here, I haven’t had the chance to branch out.”

Joe watches her intently for a second before grinning, “Well, now there’s no need to! The Hardy brothers are all you need!”

“Is that so?” Sawyer laughs, half out of actual amusement and half out of pity. “You’re giving me the hard sell here.” She turns to Frank and nudges him gently in the shoulder, whispering: “Is he always this peppy?”

“Not the word I’d use,” he says, smiling a little, “but yes. He’s always _ Joe _.”

She laughs again, and he studies her: before, he was sharp but still too _ not- _sober to really see, but now, he could look just fine. When she laughs, her nose scrunches up and her smile grows ever wide and she looks even prettier.

“Whereabouts are you living? Not a stalker, scouts’ honour—” Joe holds a hand up, swearing his honesty, “Just curious. Near the beach?”

“It’s. . . I don’t know, actually. Can’t remember the name of the street, but I know the general location. . .” She gives a bashful smile, pulling out a map from her bag. Sawyer smooths it out on the table, a hand brushing against Frank’s as the other pushes her hair over her shoulder. She procures a ballpoint pen and draws a circle on her street. “It’s just _ there _.”

Number eighteen, Spencer Drive. Just a street down from Frank and Joe’s. In fact, if his memory served him right, number eighteen was the corner of the intersection that connected Spencer Street and theirs. It was one of the older grey-brick beach cottages, stranded in the midst of painted Hamptons-style two storeys and their accompanying lawns and shiny cars.

“Hey, that’s pretty close to ours,” Joe points out, fiddling with his hair absentmindedly. “Are your parents in town?”

“My legal guardian is.” Sawyer says, not pointedly, but by the way she shifts a little in her seat Frank can tell it’s the asterisk next to her name, “We’re renting the place for the summer. . . originally, we were going to come a little later, but he decided to move us here early.”

“That’s just more time for you to hang out with us,” Joe shrugs gleefully, clearly excited at the prospect of a new friend to exert his Joe-mania onto. Or maybe he’s trying to psych her out: despite being the person that knows Joe the best, Frank can’t figure him out.

“That’s one way to make it positive,” Sawyer smiles at him, before turning to Frank. “Hey, before I forget, I’ll give you my number.”

“_ Officially. _” The dark-haired boy says.

“Officially,” she confirms, before grabbing a napkin and quickly writing down her number. “There you go. Call me, okay?”

Frank nods as if he’s swearing an oath, before Sawyer flashes him another bright smile and climbs out of the booth, slipping the map back into her bag as she does so.

“I’ve got to go, but it was _ really _nice meeting you guys. I’ll see you around.” Then, she leaves.

Joe lets out a low whistle as he sits up in his side of the booth, pulling out his phone to add the previously unknown-number to his contacts. “You didn’t say she was so —” He snaps his fingers in an attempt to find the words, “Nice?”

“_ Nice _ ? Is that all you can think of?” Frank asks incredulously, but he doesn’t suppress his smile. “She’s _ very _nice.”

“Interesting? Pretty?” Joe stops. “Actually, the second one’s more of an afterthought, ignore that.”

In retrospect, he didn’t.

“Frank, I think she likes you. Or at least, is on the way to liking you.”

Frank raises an eyebrow, mildly amused, but his stomach does somersaults at the thought. “Is that so?”

“I think she’s into that tall, dorky thing you have going.” Joe jokes, but in a matter of seconds he drops his big, stupid grin and leans across the table to stare at his brother as intimidatingly as he can. He doesn’t achieve the desired effect, but Frank applauds his attempt. “Juuuust kidding.”

Joe’s always been supportive of Frank’s cycle of crushes— at times, annoyingly incessant about them, yes, but still inherently supportive. So Frank believes him when his brother says, “You should call her.”

“I will, slow down.” He’s about to take out his phone, and put Sawyer’s number in, as a show of good faith to Joe, but he stops.

His phone. It’s at Callie’s.

_ Shit. _“Damn it. I left my phone at the party.”

Joe groans. “Back into the Shaw lair?”

“That’s not fair, Joe.” Frank sighs, shooting the boy opposite a glare. Joe had a very strong opinion of Callie which he expressed frequently and without subtlety. “Callie’s a good person. She’s our friend, remember?”

“She _ was _ your girlfriend.”

That was true. “I know.”

“And she _ cheated _ on you.”

That was _ also _true. “And? I’m over it.”

“And you _ say _ you’re over _ her _ but every time you go to see her you come back gallivanting the walk of shame.”

“It’s—” Frank goes red, well aware that Joe is absolutely correct, but before he can defend himself, he’s cut off.

“It’s a relapse, my sweet idiot of a brother. And you need to _ stop. _”

A myriad of truths. “I know, but—”

“Frank.”

“_ Joe. _”

“_ Frank _.” Joe’s voice is gentle now, more understanding. “She won’t even acknowledge you outside of your little flings. Whatever you had is gone.”

“I know.” He swallows, then stands up and pulls out his wallet. He hands his brother a twenty to cover for their food before heading for the door.

“Frank —” Joe sits up onto his knees in the booth and turns around to face him as Frank pushes the door open. “Get the phone and _ leave _, okay?”

Frank nods, and steps out into the Bayport morning, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not exactly sure at what point in any timeline that this takes place since frank is 17, joe is 16, and nancy is / maybe / 17 too ? i'll figure it out :)


End file.
